


Generations - The story of Hamish Watson

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hamish is all grown up, M/M, NOT Johnlock, Sherlock's older too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3787234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock rarely swears, and when he does, it isn't out loud. This is the story of the three times the Watson family caused him to swear.</p><p>This is NOT JohnLock. And if inter-generational romance freaks you out, move along now. But everyone is over-age!! </p><p>I blame my dreaming brain, I have NO idea where this came from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three times Sherlock said the F-word.

In Sherlock Holmes’ long, diverse and sometimes traumatic fifty-eight years, he’s sworn very rarely. The occasional _damn_ or _Jesus Christ_ has been known to slip past his lips when the pain had become too much, or the idiocy too great. Not a living person had heard the F-word pass his lips, and he was confident that, if he hadn’t slipped by now, he’d see out his remaining days leaving that expletive to the province of the more common people.

That’s not to say he hasn’t thought it. In fact, he’s thought it three times. Only three very special, rather extraordinary moments…and they were all caused by members of the Watson family.

**For John**

The first of these moments came, quite unexpectedly, while he was doing everything in his power to save the life of his friend.

Standing on the roof of St Barts, the body of James Moriarty laying on the stained concrete behind him, he stood looking down at John fidgeting on the road below and thought, _“I’ve misjudged this.”_

As John’s increasingly frantic tones expressed his bewilderment, and the tremor in his leg became visible even at that great a distance he thought, _“I missed something.”_

As John tried to push through the crown surrounding him, seemingly dead on the sidewalk, his shattered voice barely able to articulate the words, “He’s my friend, let me through.” He thought, _“He’s not going to be OK.”_

And as John’s legs gave way and he was supported by members of his homeless network, clustered around him and preventing John from discovering the ruse designed to keep him safe, he thought, _“Fuck.”_

**For Mary**

As she turned around…. _Not Lady Smallwoo_ d….and Sherlock was faced with the unimaginable, his thoughts scattered for a few brief moments.

Mary……The pistol calmly pointed at him, steely determination in her eyes. So very different from the woman who’d stood beside his friend….His best friend …at the wedding a month ago.

Charles Magnusson knelt on the carpet behind her, hands clasped behind his head. That should have been a clue. To see a man so unfamiliar with submission, bowed to her, should have told him that she’d be unflinching in her resolve. He thought, _“I know Mary.”_

As he stepped closer and she threatened him, he remained convinced of his deductions, he thought, _“She won’t hurt me.”_

As the minute twitch of her finger was followed by the muffled sound of a shot, he thought, _“Unexpected. I misjudged this…too.”_

As he looked down and saw the bloom of blood on his shirt, and the realisation that it was his own, he thought _“I missed something…again.”_

As pain seared a path through the receptors in his brain, he thought, _“I’m not going to be OK.”_

And as his legs gave way and he began to fall backward, shock setting in and the edges of his vision beginning to fade, he thought _“Fuck.”_

**For Hamish**

In Sherlock’s opinion Hamish Watson, John and Mary’s son, was nothing short of a walking, talking delight.

For all of his twenty-one years, he’d taken only the best from his mother and father and mixed them together, stealing errant parts of Sherlock to blend into the mix and through some inexplicable alchemy, turn into a steady, wise, and intelligent young man.

From Hamish’s viewpoint, the triumvirate of John, Mary, and Sherlock provided the ideal, if somewhat bizarre platform from which to grow and explore in whatever direction his life drew him.

The troubles of the past long behind them, John and Mary had put aside their differences to focus on the raising of their son, the only child of an otherwise dull yet content marriage.

Sherlock meanwhile, provided insight, logic, a safe-haven and sometimes even a shoulder to cry on as the boy became a man. Whilst John and Mary would forever be his parents, Sherlock and Hamish had made the uncoordinated, sometimes ungainly transition from child and adult, to friends and allies.

Flitting from science to languages, from art to athletics, Hamish had finally narrowed down his field to Bio-Chemistry and Engineering and, with Uncle Mycroft’s help, had completed his double-degree from Oxford only a month before.

Sherlock heard the key turn in the front door and the light, springing steps on the stairs identified the visitor before Hamish pushed open the door of 221B.

He turned to the man in the doorway. Blonde hair tousled from the wind, he stood slightly taller than his father, but no less broad in shoulder. The casual jeans and sports jacket was a good look on him, and for a brief surprising moment Sherlock thought, _“He’s grown up to be very attractive.”_

Hamish grinned at him, “God, It’s good to see you.” The honesty in his words, open and unguarded were paired with sparkling eyes.

  
“You too.” Sherlock replied, laying down his violin and bow. “ _I’m missing something …..AGAIN.”_

Hamish stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, “I saw you at graduation…in the audience, next to Mum and Dad. Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” Sherlock took a step forward. He thought, “ _What IS it…..he’s…different.”_

“It meant a lot..” Hamish took a step into the room, closing on Sherlock, “..that you were there.”

“Yes…well, you’re important to me.” Sherlock huffed out.

“Am I?” Hamish took another step, something flickering in his dark blue eyes.

“Of course…” A frown creased Sherlock’s brows, “..of course you are. The vague trailing tendrils of deductions started coalescing at the edges of his mind, _“Come on..come ON…What have I missed?”_

“Because, Sherlock….you’re important to me. You’ve become very important to me.” Hamish was no more than an arms-length away now, struggling to hold Sherlock’s gaze, awkward and trying to be brave.

“I understand…” He began, all the while thinking, _“I don’t understand…..I…..OH!”_

“Do you? I know there’s a big age gap between us…and I don’t know how you feel about that…” He looked away before returning to catch Sherlock’s eyes, “…or if you feel anything at all for me. But….just….I want you to think about it, OK?”

Sherlock nodded dumbly, _“How…how could I have missed this…THIS?”_

Taking his chance Hamish stepped in and, before Sherlock had a chance to respond, took his face in both hands an kissed him soundly and thoroughly. When he pulled back, he simply leaned their foreheads together, running his thumbs over Sherlock’s still sharp cheekbones.

_**Fuck!** _


	2. You kissed me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Hamish's secret is out, Sherlock deserves a little more clarity on how this came about.
> 
> Hamish begins the long, slow seduction of Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the surprisingly enthusiastic reception to this AU, I'm taking young Mr Watson and our aging Sherlock out for a sequel.

Sherlock could feel Hamish’s warm breath on his lips, the touch of them still lingering after they’d been removed. Warm golden hair pressed against his forehead, mixing with his own darker curls.

“You…..Hamish…you..” Sherlock grasped blindly for the words.

The younger man pulled back and Sherlock was surprisingly dismayed at the loss of warm skin and breath, “I’m too young…I’m sorry.”

Sherlock, desperate to stall Hamish’s escape rushed to lay a large hand on his shoulder, “No…That’s not what I was going to say.” He frowned in thought, his mouth tightening, “I was going to say…..” He reached up to press quizzical fingertips to his own mouth, “I was going to say…..you kissed me.”

Hamish rolled his eyes, a minute smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock wondered how often he’d deployed that same eye-roll at others over the years.

“Q.E.D” Hamish stated, his tone steady before adding, “That which has been proven…loosely translated.”

“I know what it means, you brat.” And with that, the tension eased a little, although it still hung thick in the air. Sherlock’s hand fell away from Hamish’s shoulder as he became more confident that the young man wouldn’t bolt from the room.

Hamish smiled easily. His face was open and guileless, and always had been. Sherlock wondered again how he could have been so blind to this.

“You never said….you never even hinted.” He looked up suddenly, eyes widening, “Do your parents know?”

Hamish huffed a laugh, “About my feelings for you, certainly not. I thought it best for us to have a chat about that first. But that I’m gay, yeah. I came out to them last Summer.”

Sherlock sat heavily in his chair, still trying to wrap his head around it, “How did I miss this? THIS! That must’ve been a bloody thick door on the closet you were hiding in.” He looked up to meet the younger man’s eyes, “I’m sorry you didn’t feel you could tell me.”

Hamish quickly knelt at his feet, “No, Sherlock..no. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel I could tell you, it’s just…..” he blushed and looked away, “I just needed to sort through it all.” He sat back on his haunches, “I knew how I felt about you, but I was under-age. I had a lot of growing up to do…a lot.”

Sherlock nodded, letting him continue.

“But I’m done waiting. I know what I feel isn’t some childish infatuation now. That took some time, I can tell you.” Hamish looked to the ceiling, shaking his head, “Sorting through the stories Dad tells, seeing you at work all these years, growing up around your…..brilliance.”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to blush and turn his face away.

“But Sherlock, in spite of everything you see, everything you deduce…you didn’t see it. You always were a bit clueless around we Watsons. Dad always said you never had a clue about him, or what he felt. And Mum….let’s not even start, yeah?”

Hamish placed his hands on his thighs and pushed up from the floor, looking fondly down at Sherlock, still sitting in the chair, focussed but blinking.

“Anyway,” Hamish continued, “you know about how I feel now. For what it’s worth, the ball’s in your court Sherlock. I’m a patient man, s’pose I got that from Dad too, and I can wait. I’m good at waiting.”

Sherlock rose and followed him as the young man headed to the kitchen, watching and he flicked on the kettle and pulled down two mugs.

Sherlock leaned against the door frame, “I’m not good at relationships Hamish, and you’d be better with…” He let the words ‘someone your own age’ unsaid.

Hamish turned on him, a flash of fire in his eyes, “I think I’m old enough to decide what I want. Don’t choose for me, Sherlock. If you don’t, or can’t want me..that way, say so….but don’t prescribe what’s best for me.”

_God, he get’s that stubbornness from me. I taught him that immovable intransigence. He’s right, he’s a man now. His mistakes are his own._

As if reading his mind, Hamish lifted the mug and cradled it in his hands, making unflinching eye contact, “You’re not a mistake, Sherlock. Far from it.”

“I’m more than twice your age Hamish, my best years are behind me.” Sherlock whispered and then winced at the vulnerability in his voice, “Why on earth would you want me?”

Hamish set his mug down with a wry shake of his head, “Come with me.” Circling behind Sherlock, he pushed him toward the bedroom to stand in front of the full-length mirror.

Hamish was too short to look over Sherlock’s shoulder, so he stood to the side where he could still see the ageing detective’s reflection.

“You want to know what I see when I look at you? Besides the bespoke suits that still hug your fit frame, beside the bonkers curls with the snow-flurry of white against the black, beside the eyes shining with more intelligence than any man or woman I’ve ever met?”

Sherlock nodded, helplessly comparing the hidden aches in his knees and ragged scar that marred his long neck to the flawless man standing at his side.

“Incandescence, Sherlock…..I see the fire. And just like Dad, I see the battlefield. For a long time, I thought if I got too close, the fire would burn me and the battlefield would kill me, but I was wrong. You’ve weathered me..step by step, year by year…you’ve honed me to stand in the flames and withstand the gunfire. I want to be with you, to feel the scorching heat……I need it.”

Sherlock was trembling, and hating himself for it. Decades of keeping people at arms length, even John and Mary. It was exhausting. Suddenly, here was Hamish; intelligent, insightful, trusted. His words held not only truth, but logic. He had to admire the degree to which Hamish had thought this through. This wasn’t the idle fancy of an inexperienced boy. This was…at the end of the day, Hamish. And he wanted Sherlock.

“Can I….” Sherlock stumbled on the words, “Can I think about it? I’m not saying no, I’m just….”

Hamish smiled at the man in the mirror, “Take your time. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Sherlock gaped, confused.

“Oh, didn’t I mention it?” Hamish grinned wickedly, “Dad’s given me the key to 221A. I’m moving in.” He paused for effect, “……SURPRISE!”

**_Fuck_ **


	3. Moving day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamish moves in, Mary gets suspicious and John remains clueless.
> 
> The more things change, the more they remain the same.

If the sound of the front door opening hadn’t distracted Sherlock from his experiment, the accompanying crashing and banging would surely have done so.

Years before, the surprise of Mrs Hudson leaving 221 Baker Street to Sherlock and John had been bittersweet. Her remembered voice whispered loud in their ears as they separated the titles, passing John 221A and leaving 221B and C with Sherlock. To the day she died, the hopeful twinkle in her eye whenever she caught sight of ‘her boys’ together told a tale of an unrepentant romantic.

Tying the belt of his robe a little more firmly, he prepared to greet the invading horde invading the sanctuary of 221 Baker as he made his way down the stairs.

“Sherlock!” John greeted him happily, “Nice of you to join us….here.” A large box was unceremoniously pressed into his arms as John released it and stood back.

“Ummmm.”

“Moving in day, surely you hadn’t forgotten?” John was turning back to the front door, easing past several faceless strangers muscling a desk down the hallway toward 221A.

“It’s difficult to forget a date you haven’t been informed of.” Sherlock looked past John’s shoulder toward his son, lugging a lamp through the doorway.

“Oh, didn’t I mention a date?” Hamish grinned cheekily, entirely without remorse, “My mistake.”

John glanced back at Sherlock with a well-practiced ‘what can you do?’ roll of the eyes, and headed outside for another load.

Sherlock stood for a moment, frozen at the foot of the stairs, the box in his arms getting heavier by the minute. “You were serious..” He said carefully, “You’re…moving in.”

Hamish walked toward him and gripped the other side of the box. Slightly further away from the bustle of moving day, the smile dropped away and he quietly asked, “Seriously Sherlock, Are you OK with this? I won’t move in if you don’t want it.”

Sherlock’s distant look disappeared with a blink and he nodded more confidently, “Yes…yes, of course.” He smiled more openly, “Of course I want you here.”

The recent look of happiness, hope and…just a touch of hunger briefly darkened Hamish’s eyes before he grinned again and swung away, the box in his strong arms, “Then hurry up and help us unload the truck. I’ve told the troops you’re buying them pizza for lunch.”

As the blonde head disappeared though the door of his new flat, Sherlock called after him, “Sorry…I’m WHAT?”

@@@

Three hours later and virtually all the furniture had been unloaded. Hamish’s seemingly endless parade of friends had made short work of the heavier items and Mary had stood by the front doorway, masterminding the entire operation.

Sherlock stood at the foot of the stairs, calmly inspecting boxes as they passed by, occasionally stealing the odd book or interesting item. Hamish had situated himself two stairs up which allowed him to oversee both the comings and goings as well as retrieve some of his more valued belongings from Sherlock’s growing pile.

“Think he’ll be OK?” John stepped up beside Mary, wiping his grimy hands on his jeans.

“Hamish or Sherlock?” She asked brightly.

“Both, I suppose. A Watson and a Holmes in 221, I never thought I’d see that again.” There was a note of wistfulness in his tone, remembering times long past. Chases through darkened London Streets, laughter in the foyer, Biryani on Saturday nights.

“Times change…people too.” Mary said softly, leaning to kiss his weathered cheek.

“They do,” He slipped an arm around her waist, “Sometimes for the better. They’re good together, I haven’t seen Sherlock at ease with anyone like that since…..well…..”

“Since you….” Mary smiled and tugged him closer, “Jealous of your son?”

“No..just….maybe…a little. Does that make me a terrible father?”

“No…” She shook her head, her now grey hair swaying in gentle waves, “What makes you a terrible father is putting those two together in the same building.”

“Hamish can stand up for himself.” John looked down the hall at the two men, arguing over an antique set of jewellers’ scales.

“It’s not necessarily Hamish I’m worried about.” Mary said thoughtfully.

Not for the first time that day, she watched as Hamish let out a light laugh, gestured in surrender and laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, handing over the scales. Thinking back, there’d been a lot of lingering touches today. Brushes as they passed in the hallway, a guiding hand at the small of Sherlock’s back, fingers brushing dirt out of Sherlock’s salt-and-pepper hair.

It had been increasingly challenging to simply dismiss the contact as Hamish’s usual disregard of personal space. From her observations, Sherlock wasn’t returning the touches, but he wasn’t shying away from them either.

“Sherlock will be fine, look at him.”

Mary looked….Hamish leaned in again, whispering something in the older man’s ear and Sherlock’s eyes widened and he blushed before the carefully guarded public face settled into place again.

“Yes..I’m sure you’re right.” Those were the words that came out of Mary’s mouth but inside, her mind was screaming something else entirely….

**_Fuck_ **


	4. Don't tell dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, so John knows. There's nothing like an angry John Watson.

“HAMISH WILLIAM WATSON!” The doorknob of 221 Baker Street actually dented the plaster as John threw it open, “GET DOWN HERE!”

Upstairs, Hamish lifted his eyes from the iPad he was perusing in time to catch Sherlock’s roll in resignation, “You’d better go down, I’d say he knows.”

The corner of Hamish’s mouth twitched up, “Good to see your world famous deductions aren’t letting you down.”

“RIGHT NOW!!” Came the shout from below, “ONE…”

“Obvious,” Sherlock murmured over a smile.

“TWO!!”

Hamish stood and pulled his ratty Led Zeppelin T-shirt down, an unnecessary habit he’d picked up from years of watching Sherlock do the same with fitted shirts, “Coming Dad,” he called through the door.

“THREE!!”

“I’M ON MY WAY” he shouted toward the door before turning back, “You coming down?”

“I didn’t hear my name,” Sherlock responded, flicking the newspaper back up to block the look from the man in the doorway.

“Coward,” Hamish jibed fondly.

“Prudent,” the detective replied, “Nevertheless, I would anticipate my own summons to be scheduled in around five minutes. I’ll be down shortly.”

**

“SHERLOCK!!”

“Right on time,” Sherlock mumbled to himself as he rose from the chair and made the trip down the seventeen stairs with all the ceremony of a trip to the gallows.

**

“Take a seat,” John hissed, gesturing to the kitchen chair sitting vacant next to Hamish.

“I’d prefer to stand.”

“Sit – down.” John grit out from between clenched teeth.

“Dad…” Hamish began.

“No, you’ve had your go. I want to hear from… him, now.” John inclined his head stiffly to where Sherlock stood behind the timber chair, his hands smoothing the patchy paint, “Sherlock, I won’t say it again… Sit… Down.”

Sherlock sat and made a valiant attempt to look other than a guilty schoolboy. He could count the times he’d seen John this angry on one hand. It wasn’t pretty, in fact, it made the detective’s skin crawl with adrenaline. What made this worse was that the anger was directed squarely at him. There was nothing held back and for the first time in years, Sherlock was very grateful indeed that John wasn’t carrying his gun.

“John…” Sherlock began only to have the man raise a finger with a curt shake of the head.

“Don’t,” John spat in a low, clipped tone that spoke volumes.

The three men sat in silence as John swallowed hard several times and lifted his head to stare Sherlock in the eyes, “What?...” He stopped, cleared his throat noisily and tried again, “What the _hell_ do you think you’re playing at?”

“John…” Sherlock pitched his voice low, calm.

“He’s my fucking SON, Sherlock! You’re fucking my SON!”

“We’re not actually…”

“MY SON!”

“Dad…”

“SHUT UP!”

“John…”

“Jesus Christ!” John stood fast enough that the chair he’d been sitting on toppled backward to clatter to the floor before balling his fists and stepping to tower over Sherlock, “Of all the things you’ve done, all the…” John reflexively clenched and unclenched his hands, “How could you do this to me?”

Hamish opened his mouth and shut it again at a minuscule shake from Sherlock. Instead, Sherlock made solid eye contact with John and began again, “We haven’t done anything to _you_ John,” he said calmly, “as surprising as this may be, this isn’t about _you_ at all.”

John’s eyes widened and he momentarily swayed as if struck, “What?...”

“Hamish is almost 21, John. He is, in spite of your natural inclination to always cast him in the role of a child, now an adult. And despite every parent’s self-obsessed need to have their child’s world forever revolve around them, Hamish is making his own decisions and for his own reasons. You may like to think that he has some hidden agenda here, but the truth is far more simple. Your son… is now a man.”

“But…” John tried to interject, but Sherlock carried on.

“No, John, wait. You need to hear this; to understand. This is _his_ decision. If it helps, I was as surprised as you were. I didn’t pursue your son, manipulate him, _seduce_ him.”

“It’s true, dad,” Hamish rose quietly to stand behind Sherlock’s chair, “Sherlock didn’t ask for this. In fact, I wasn’t even sure he wanted it, you know how he is. But… I had to try.”

John paused, glancing between his son, higher than his eye-line, and Sherlock, lower. The anger was softening incrementally, being replaced by something more complicated.

“I want this, Dad. I think I always did. You know what he’s like,” Hamish looked down toward Sherlock’s salt and pepper curls then back up, “you remember, yeah?”

John sighed hard, “Yeah… I remember.”

“Then you know I have to try. I can’t let this go, even if I… Even if we wanted to,” he lay a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, who covered it with his own in support.

John firmed up his mouth and stared Sherlock in the face, “If you hurt him, so help me…”

Sherlock looked up, open and more uncertain than John had ever seen, “I have no idea what I’m doing here, John. You know that.”

“Yeah,” John huffed out a tight laugh, “I know. Sentiment, hey?”

“Still not really my area,” Sherlock chuckled back before he gasped as Hamish pressed a fond kiss to the top of his head, “I’m too old for this.”

“Not so old,” Hamish murmured into the curls, “They say fifty is the new thirty.”

“Then I’m still ten years older than you, people will talk,” Sherlock was still looking toward Hamish’s father, uncertainty in his face.

“They do little else.” John sighed in resignation, “God help us, this is insane, but if you’re sure?”

“I’m far from sure, John,” Sherlock replied gently.

“Yes he is,” Hamish tilted his head and John found himself looking into blue eyes through curls, “he just doesn’t know it yet.”


End file.
